My Two Dads
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: Michael Guerin has always wanted a family, and a home, but he's lost hope of that ever happening, and is ready to give up. Severus and Sirius find out something life-altering, and a bit mind-boggling. Albus Dumbledore simply hopes that everything will work out for the good of, not only the cause of the Order, but everyone concerned. (warnings inside)


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Roswell or Harry Potter; both wonderful works belong to their respective owners. Roswell – television version; Harry Potter – book version.

**A/N:** February 14, 2000 (Set two days before "Independence Day" where Michael reveals the abuse to Max and Isabel, thus making this AU as it is never revealed and he runs away instead, and he has a new back story); As such, I am altering the Harry Potter timeline (very AU) – it shall be the fourth year of the Harry Potter realm, yet be set in the year 2000 to match the "Roswell" timeline. In other words, this is AU. If the timeline issues boggle you, disregard them entirely, as I often do, I'm horrible when it comes to time.

**Warnings: **Features child abuse (somewhat graphic), and eventually will feature slash, though this really shouldn't be a warning (non-graphic).

* * *

Rain soaked through his torn clothing and streamed into his eyes as he stumbled into the middle of the highway. Strange that it was raining. Rain was rare in the desert. A car with one working headlight bore down on him, but he stood his ground, staring at the oncoming car, blinking the rain out of his eyes. He was going to get away from Hank one way or another. He refused to be his drunken foster father's punching bag any longer.

His left eye was swollen, Hank had forgotten that Michael had school the next day and had gone for his face in a drunken rage. His ribs ached and it felt as though his nose had been broken – again. He could've gone to Max, but didn't want him or Is to know about what Hank did to him in his spare time. He didn't need their pity and, worse, didn't want them to call social services or tell their parents.

He would be better off on his own and didn't want to be pushed into yet another foster home. Not one of them had been what could be called a 'good' experience for Michael. He had stuck with Hank for so long because most nights the man was too drunk to really do any damage and would pass out before he could really take after him.

Tonight, however, Hank had been in rare form. Michael had barely walked into the trashed trailer home when his foster 'father' started in on him. He had walked home from his night shift at the Crashdown Café and was exhausted. It had been a long and boring day at school and the café had been busier than usual. Hoping that Hank was asleep, he pulled open the door as quietly as possible and the next thing he knew, he was being flung across the room and Hank's arm was across his throat, cutting off his oxygen. Hank's face, twisted in anger, hovered just inches away from Michael's.

Slightly dizzy from the unexpected assault and the putrid stench of stale whiskey that came from his foster father, he quickly adopted a bored, 'whatever' look and waited for Hank's next move, knowing that if he showed any fear, Hank would get off on it. Also, Michael was unwilling to give the man the satisfaction of knowing that he had been taken by surprise. Hank swung his half-drunk bottle of whiskey at Michael's head, clipping him close to his temple, though he was careful not to break the bottle or spill its much coveted contents.

"You no good son of a bitch," Hank sneered, placing the bottle on the counter and hauling his foster son over to the kitchen by his hair. He tossed him to the cracked linoleum floor and took a swig of whiskey, glaring at the boy, nostrils flaring. "You know how much you cost me?" He kicked Michael in the side, leaving him gasping for air.

_Oh great, the check from social services was late – again. Hank is on one of his last bottles of whiskey. Damn this night is going to be long._

Straddling his foster son, Hank grasped him by the hair again and slammed his head into the floor. Vision swimming in bright, pinprick stars, Michael attempted to sneer back at the alcohol-imbued man, but it came out as more of a half smile which enraged the man even more, "Oh, so you think this is funny?" He slurred, sitting on his foster son's chest and slamming the boy's head once more onto the floor, cracking the linoleum with the impact. Blackness crept at the edge of Michael's sight.

_Oh no, got to stay awake. Gotta know what's happening. Don't black out, no telling what Hank will do to me then._

Hank moved off of him. As Michael blinked to clear his head, he felt another sharp jab in his side as Hank once again kicked him. The man was still wearing his boots. He was dressed in a sweat-stained white t-shirt, tobacco stained boxers and fricken cowboy boots, Maria would totally freak if she ever met Hank, the man had no fashion taste whatsoever.

_Maria will never meet Hank, though; I'll make damn sure of that._

"Get up boy!" Hank bent and hauled Michael to his feet.

Swaying a bit, he was grateful that Hank had him pushed up against the refrigerator. He didn't think he'd be able to stand if he wasn't allowed to lean against it. Michael's relief was short-lived when Hank roughly pushed his stubble-darkened face into his and snarled, pinning him against the refrigerator with his body.

"Don't you move, boy." spittle from Hank's lips dotted Michael's face.

Panic had his heart racing and his breath coming in quick, quiet rasps, yet he couldn't move and he refused to give Hank the satisfaction of showing the fear that was tearing at his guts, threatening to spill over. Hank kept one arm in place over his foster son's chest and reached the other down into one of his pockets. Keeping eye contact with his foster son, waiting for a flinch in the boy's eyes, he searched the boy's pocket, pulling it outward. Unsatisfied, he reached into the other pocket and pulled out a wilted twenty-dollar bill.

"Trying to keep this from me?" Hank waggled it in his foster son's face, still pinning the boy to the refrigerator, the handle bit painfully into Michael's back.

Mutely shaking his head, he hoped that Hank would be satisfied with his find and let him go, but instead, the man grabbed him and forced him into the living room. Hank threw a left hook that took him by surprise and sent him sprawling to the floor.

"What else you keeping from me?" Hank stood over him, a menacing look in his eyes.

"Give me the rest," he demanded, kicking Michael in the ribs.

Breathing hard, trying to find his voice, he gasped, "Th..that's everything. There's no more."

"The hell there ain't." Another painful kick to the ribs had Michael wheezing.

"That's it Hank." Michael looked up at his foster father, pleading with his eyes for the man to believe him.

"You're lying boy." Hank kicked him once more before hauling him up by the front of his shirt and pounding a fist into his face, bloodying his nose.

Tossing him face down on the couch, Hank spied his belt hanging over the back of a stained armchair and grasped it firmly in one hand.

"Take off your jeans," he demanded.

Closing his eyes, Michael shook his head, but when Hank reached down to unbutton them, he shoved the man's hand away and complied, leaving the jeans around his ankles. He hadn't been hit with a belt since he was fourteen. Usually his powers kicked in and helped him by then, but this time, he couldn't even think straight let alone protect himself. With shaking hands, he pulled his jeans down and glared defiantly at Hank, through slit eyes.

Hank wasted no time in applying the belt to him.

"You will give me the rest of the money," he panted in between welt-raising applications of the belt.

Not allowing tears to roll down his face, Michael took the beating silently, sucking in shallow breaths with each sting, waiting for Hank to give up or pass out.

"You are such a fuck up. I should kick your ass out of here. You good for nothing screw up." The belt stopped and Hank tossed it aside. He bent and snarled into Michael's face. The stench of whiskey emanating from Hank nearly caused Michael to pass out, but he maintained eye contact with the bastard in spite of the darkness that crept into his vision.

Hank hauled Michael to his feet, but his legs were rubbery and would not cooperate. The entire lower half of his body had gone numb. He couldn't walk, so Hank dragged him across the room and pulled open the door, tossing his foster son out.

"You'll stay out here until you get me some more money, you good for nothing freak!"

Michael lay in a tangled heap half-way on the ground and half-way on the front steps, panting; a trickle of blood running down the corner of his mouth. The door slammed behind him and he could hear Hank lock the deadbolt as if from a great distance away. Dazed, he attempted to pull himself into a sitting position, but ended up falling the rest of the way down the stairs, blinking up at the star filled sky.

The night air was chilly and darkness played at the edge of his mind. He couldn't feel anything below his waist. If he didn't move, he knew that he would pass out and his foster father would come back for him. He had to get away from Hank and this time he wouldn't return to the dilapidated trailer and his foster father's drunken rages.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, pain racked his body, but he continued, knowing what would happen if he didn't succeed. It was slow going, but he finally got himself into a half-sitting position and pulled his tattered jeans up, noting as if from an outsider's perspective, that his legs were red with bloody welts in spots. He nearly passed out with the pain, but gritted his teeth and succeeded in getting into his jeans.

Taking in slow, soothing breaths, he waited for the dizziness and pain to subside before attempting to stand. He stood on wobbly legs and took a few teetering steps toward the desert. He waited a moment, listening for Hank and swallowed the dryness in his throat as he heard the front door jangle behind him. He held his breath, trembling in fear, until he heard his foster father move away from the door. Soon, he could hear the TV blaring through the aluminum walls of the place he had called home for as long as he could remember. Turning his back on his 'home', he limped away into the dark, cool desert night.

* * *

Professor Snape paced in the crowded Headmaster's office, taking a moment to glare now and again at Dumbledore. What the man had told him mere minutes ago was completely insane. There was no way in hell that he was a father. No way in hell that, not only was he a father, but that he also shared the 'joy' of fatherhood with none other than Sirius Black.

Oh, there'd been rumors that the Headmaster of Hogwarts had grown a bit daft in the last couple of years, but this; this was completely over the top. This bordered on dementia.

"You can't be serious." Dumbfounded, Black stared open-mouthed at Dumbledore.

Sirius' face had grown even paler when Dumbledore sat him down with Snape and calmly explained that he and Snape were both the biological fathers of a sixteen year old boy dwelling in Roswell, New Mexico of the United States of America.

"I know that it is a lot to take in and I am sorry for springing this on the both of you so suddenly, but there is some concern for his safety." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled madly in the light of the fireplace.

"There is no bloody way in hell that this is possible." Sirius, stood and glared at Severus who glared right back. Both men's faces were mere inches from each other.

"For once I agree with the mangy mutt," Severus sneered in reply, gripping his wand dangerously.

"Gentlemen." Dumbledore stood, resting both hands on his desk as he pierced each man with a glare of rebuke."I will explain everything, but time is of the essence, your son needs both of you. Now!"

"No." Sirius broke his gaze with Severus and turned to stare at the Headmaster.

"You will explain it to us now," both men spoke at the same time surprising each other and the Headmaster. They each cast the other a nasty sneer and flopped down into their respective armchairs across from the aged professor.

"There is no time." Dumbledore sighed in exasperation as he stood. "We need to get you past the castle wards first. Sirius you will need to transform into Padfoot and Severus." He walked toward the door, casting a pointed look back at the wizards who were still sitting. "You will be responsible for holding the portkeys to and from the destination. You must hurry as the boy is in grave danger. The first portkey is set to the boy's unique signature and the other will bring you to a position just outside the gates of Hogwarts."

The urgency in the Headmaster's voice had both men standing and following him in spite of their anger toward the man and their disbelief in his claims. It was clear that someone was in danger, whether or not it was a mutually shared son was a completely different and absurd matter which would be sorted out once they had gone on the headmaster's errand to retrieve the boy.

The castle corridors were empty as it was well past the hour when even wandering students wandered them. As they reached the gates, Dumbledore passed the portkeys to Severus, and Sirius transformed into the big, shaggy wolfhound, Padfoot. Severus pocketed the portkey which would be used to return them home, and walked, followed reluctantly by Padfoot, a few feet from the gate.

"Good luck." Dumbledore waved at the two, the light of the waning moon sparkling off his glasses as both man and dog disappeared from view in a soft, 'pop'. "You're going to need it."

* * *

"What the…" Severus stumbled into Padfoot, not his best portkey entrance ever. No doubt due to the length of the journey. Correcting his footing, he surveyed the landscape and belatedly noticed that it was raining. They were on a lone stretch of highway and it looked to be in the middle of nowhere.

"He is completely daft," Severus muttered to the dog who stood mutely next to him. "There's no one here, and we are getting soaked."

He reached into his pocket for the portkey to return them to the considerably drier clime they had just left when Padfoot suddenly raced away from his side and headed in the direct path of an oncoming car.

"Oh bloody hell," Severus exclaimed, throwing up his hands and shaking his head as he followed the mutt.

He had to act quickly, or Sirius was going to be nothing but road-kill. Severus contemplated allowing fate to play out as it would, but then sighed, knowing that the headmaster and Harry Potter (not that he owed that brat anything) would probably string him up if he allowed Sirius to be killed by a car.

* * *

Dumbledore scrubbed a hand down his face, and downed a glass of fire whiskey as he stared at the colorful flames in his fireplace. It was rare that he drank, but he felt that what he'd just learned warranted a drink. He still couldn't believe it, but there was little reason for him to doubt the witch who'd told him the tale. And, what a tale it was.

There was no love lost between Severus Snape and Sirius Black. They'd been staunch rivals from the moment they met - Albus remembered it well. The greasy-haired Slytherin, and the wild, brash Gryffindor. Both of them were equally ill-tempered, and both of them had come from abusive homes, but, at that time, people didn't pry, and everyone minded their own business. Abuse was considered commonplace, and everyone turned a blind-eye toward it, claiming that it was none of their business.

Now, however, Albus couldn't turn a blind-eye toward accusations of abuse. He'd seen what that led to - the darkness that still haunted Severus and Black, the monster that Tom Riddle had become, and the way that, what he suspected was going on at Privet Drive, had taken a toll on Harry Potter.

If things worked out as Albus hoped they would, not only would the boy who was apparently the product of an alien abduction decades ago, find a new home, but so would Harry Potter. And, maybe, if they all were lucky, Sirius and Severus would find a way to bury the hatchet - so to speak - and, if not grow to love each other, at least grow to enjoy each others company, or, at least tolerate each other, for the sake of their son and Harry.

* * *

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